


equal opposite reactions

by volantium



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anxiety Attacks, F/M, Fluff, Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn-ish, Strangers to Idiots in Love, a FRAT party, a coffee shop, a fire alarm, a university gala, alternatively titled "peter parker's guide to falling in love with your fellow ta", amongst other things and not necessarily in that order, this is so full of tropey cliches it rots my teeth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:07:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26646508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volantium/pseuds/volantium
Summary: The first time Peter meets Harley Keener, it’s entirely by accident.He’s in the communal office space all the TA's share, two hours after he planned on leaving, stuck doing paperwork when this guy walks in.Walk probably isn’t the best description—he barges in with a cup of coffee and two binders in one hand, phone in the other, shouldering the door open like he has a personal vendetta against it.“Uh, hi,” Peter says, almost at a loss for words. “I’m Peter.”
Relationships: Harley Keener/Peter Parker, background Ned Leeds/Betty Brant, background Tony Stark/Pepper Potts
Comments: 50
Kudos: 403





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Peter meets Harley Keener, it’s entirely by accident. 

He’s in the communal office space the TA’s share, two hours after he planned on leaving, stuck doing paperwork when this guy walks in.

Walk probably isn’t the best description—he barges in with a cup of coffee and two binders in one hand, phone in the other, shouldering the door open like he has a personal vendetta against it.

The guy’s dressed in all black. Doc Martens, ripped jeans, black hoodie underneath a leather jacket to combat the outside chill. The only shock of colour is the mess of warm blonde curls that spill artfully across his forehead. Peter watches in stunned silence as the man walks over to the desk across from his, the one he’d carelessly glanced over when he walked in on account of the sheer mess it is.

“Uh, hi,” Peter says, almost at a loss for words. “I’m Peter.”  
  
“Harley.”

 _Harley_ tosses his phone onto the desk, places the binders down before taking a sip of coffee. The desk is absolutely cluttered. There are stacks of paper sliding off the edge, highlighters and pens everywhere. Peter can see at least three keep-cups balancing preciously on top of a textbook, a green and black plaid flannel hanging from the chair. It’s a far cry from Peter’s on desk, which already has four different kinds of organisers and a cup for his pens that his aunt got him that reads _'I_ _make horrible science puns but only periodically’_ on it. Harley fishes a laptop out of his bag, not even bothering to clear a space for it, just sets it down on top the inch-thick article print outs.

Peter quirks an eyebrow. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise, I didn’t know we had new tutors. I work for Professor Stark.”

Peter perks up at that, even despite the uninterested tone of Harley's voice. “Oh, me too! I didn’t realise there were two of us for intro engineering?”

“It doesn’t,” Peter can see a brief smirk flit over his face, doesn’t want to think about how attractive it looks, because he doesn't even know who this guy is but he's already getting an aloof-dickhead kind of vibe. “I’m a fifth-year senior, I’m in for his biomechanics capstone.”

It’s only mildly surprising to Peter—of course Professor Stark wouldn’t hire anyone stupid, but Peter took that course last year. Not only does he _know_ how hard it is, he also knows that usually only post-grad students TA for it.

“So, intro engineering?”

It takes Peter a moment to realise what Harley’s asking. “Yeah, Professor Stark hired me a couple of weeks ago.” 

And hadn’t _that_ been a shock to the system? The innocuous email sitting in his student inbox probably all summer, the _Hi, Peter, would you be interested in TAing for my engineering design course this semester? I know you’re only a junior, but I’ve seen your work, I think this would be a great opportunity for you_ from Professor fucking _Stark._ The same Professor Stark that Peter's been looking up to for years, even still in high school, who's reforms to the engineering major are the entire reason why Peter even applied here in the first place.

Harley nods, taking a sip of his drink, doesn’t reply. Peter feels a bit vexed at that—what person starts up a conversation only to end it there? But the thought’s only a flash in his mind, there one second gone the next. He looks back down at the form he’s filling out, something to do with accessing resources at the library as part of the teaching staff and not as a student, the words starting to blur. It’s been almost four hours since he sat down, intent on getting to know the new syllabus Professor Stark assigned for this semester like the back of his hand. He’d been done by the two-hour mark, got lost in the endless paperwork needed to set up his position as a teacher’s assistant. Peter glances at his phone, replies to Ned’s text about getting dinner at their favourite whole-in-the-wall with an _I’ll meet you there_ before packing up his stuff.

Peter scoops up his bag. “See you around?”

Harley waves a hand in Peter’s direction, not even bothering to tear his eyes away from his laptop screen.

* * *

Harley’s walking with Professor Stark, the next time Peter sees him. It’s only been about a week since he met the senior, and each time Peter’s been back to the office, it’s been void of one, unknown Harley.

He’s dressed up today—and if Peter wasn’t already well aware of the fact of his bisexuality, well, he’s thoroughly sure Harley Keener would be his gay awakening if he needed one. Slate grey dress pants, a black button-up that stretches deliciously across his shoulders, even the ever-present combat boots look sleek and shiny. Hair pulled into a low ponytail, a pair of aviators hanging from his shirt collar. Peter feels decidedly less put together in his jeans, sweater, and converse get up if this is what Harley wears to _teach._

Professor Stark claps Peter on the shoulder. “Hi, Peter—you’ve met Harley, right?”

“Yeah!” Peter says, too eager in his nervous state. “Nice to see you, man.”

Harley holds out a hand for him to shake. “You too.”

“Great,” Professor Stark says. “I know you’re getting the hang of this, but I thought Harley—he’s was my TA for this course last year—could sit in on this lecture and give you some feedback?”

Peter nods, not really sure what to say. Tries not to spiral, because Professor Stark literally just said that Peter’s doing an okay job, getting the hang of it, but—it’s a bit intimidating, Harley, who he only knows so much about. That he’s a fifth-year, genius by all accounts, tutoring one of the hardest classes Peter’s taken so far. Almost smug, polite in a way that’s standoffish, at least to Peter’s unique brand of sunshine and perpetual nervousness. And now apparently, Harley has two years of experience at this teaching thing—actually _taught this class_ _last year—_ and is going to offer Peter feedback.

Maybe more than just a bit intimidating.

“Just pretend I’m not here,” Harley says, as the three of them walk into the auditorium.

Some of the more eager students have seated themselves, the rest following once it’s clear their professor is in the room. It’s only a couple of weeks into the semester, and even though this class is formally titled ‘Engineering Design,' everyone calls it intro engineering. It’s a prerequisite for just about every engineering major, no matter what speciality. It takes Peter an awful long time to take attendance. He really needs to set up that ID-card scanner he keeps thinking about.

They’re learning about thermodynamics today, just the basics—there’s an entire sophomore class dedicated to it that Peter took last year. Peter gives a brief overview, describes the different laws and concepts the best he can, has kind of developed a reputation of being able to explain just about anything in a weird mish-mash of engineering jargon and layman’s terms while still making sense. He hands over to Professor Stark fifteen minutes later to get into specifics.

Peter’s busy handing out this week’s homework when someone asks about entropy.

“Harley, you want to jump in?” Professor Stark asks, which Peter wasn’t really expecting, but as soon as Harley starts talking it makes sense.

“Sure,” Harley stands up, makes his way over to the front of the lecture hall to lean casually against the desk, arms crossed across his chest. “So, Peter’s already given a solid explanation of equilibrium, I’ll pick up from there.” 

The more he listens to Harley, the more he realises there’s an edge of an accent to his voice, slow and syrupy, hidden underneath too much exposure to the city. Peter hadn’t noticed it before, that night in the office. The way the words are drawn out _just_ enough, the way his ‘g’s drop, how too many words run together, the casual ‘y’all’ve’ he drops in the middle of his explanation that has Peter snorting, because who even _says_ that. His voice is a low rumble in the back of Peter’s head, could almost drift asleep to it, if he wasn’t in the middle of one of the biggest lecture theatres in the whole state.

Peter chimes in with an explanation on the Gibbs free energy potential, and Harley dives right back into talking about reversable processes and increases in entropy and irreversible processes and the inevitable heat-death of the universe. Peter picks up on the natural pauses in Harley’s speech, and it’s _easy,_ the way they end up basically explaining back-and-forth between the two of them about the possible future collapse of the solar system. The way Harley’s going on about it—if Peter didn’t already know he was a mechanical engineering major he’d think it make more sense if he was doing straight physics, the amount of detail he’s getting into. Peter glances to the side, sees Professor Stark quietly laughing, and realises that he absolutely knew what he was getting their shell-shocked first year class into when he invited Harley up to answer.

“Any questions?”

One kid up in the back raises his hand, voice almost awed. “Who are you?”

“Harley Keener,” Harley says, unnecessarily, uncrossing his arms to lean back on the desk. “I TA for Tony’s biomechanics class, I’m just sitting in on this one.”

Peter doesn’t miss the way the students gossip among themselves, whispering, and he’s sure that by the end of the day the entire student body will know about the biomechanics tutor who sat in on intro engineering and gave a ten minute-long speech on _entropy_ of all things with a level of confidence only surpassed by Professor Stark himself.

And Peter’s not unaware of the rumours about Harley, either, know that he's paying attention to them. Knows that he’s considered one of the best TA’s in the whole science department, his eidetic memory highly sought after, not just his intellect. Has a reputation for taking no shit, which Peter images he doesn’t get much off between the attitude and the fact that he’s like six foot three compared to Peter’s absolutely average five-six almost-seven. Peter’s honestly kind of surprised it’s taken them this long for them to meet, but Peter did intro engineering the year before Harley tutored for it, so maybe it’s not that surprising that they haven’t, merely passing one another like ships in the night, until now.

Professor Stark wraps up the class after that, letting Harley and Peter field end-of-lecture questions as he leaves in a rush for some faculty meeting, already late, much to exasperation of students and teacher’s assistants both. Peter’s caught up in explaining the upcoming modelling assessment to a handful of nervous looking kids as he ducks out.

Ten minutes later and Peter is packing up his bag, shuffling last week’s homework into his ‘to mark’ folder when a voice in his ear makes him jump. “You’re not bad, Parker,” Harley says.“The way you explained the second law made so much more sense than when I was in this class.”

“You didn’t have Professor Stark?”

Harley shakes his head. “Nah, he wasn’t teaching undergrads yet.”

“Well, in that case,” Peter can’t help the grin that spreads over his face in light of Harley’s praise. “Glad I could be of service. But I have to say, your rant about entropy was amazing. I’m inspired.”

Harley laughs, and Peter decides he quite likes the sound, even as the other man walks off, a goodbye thrown over his shoulder to Peter.

That night, Peter checks his student—staff, now, his actual name instead of just the string of his student number—email and finds one from a _h.keener_ that when he opens it is just a link to some recent publication on black hole thermodynamics and a brief ‘ _thought you might find this interesting – h.’_ that has him replaying Harley’s rant in his head on loop, not just for the science of it.

* * *

Peter’s in the middle of studying for his upcoming electrochemisty exam with Gwen, Betty, and Ned, tucked the corner of the engineering library, when Gwen’s phone vibrates suddenly across the tabletop, startling all four of them.

“Do you guys mind if one of my friends join us?” Gwen asks, a furrow to her eyebrows as she reads the message. “His roommate is being a dick, apparently.”

“Of course not, more the merrier,” Betty says. “Right, boys?”

Ned nods his head, same time as Peter gives an agreeing noise from the back of his throat, eyes trained on the equation in front of him.

It's nearly half an hour later by the time Gwen's friend turns up.

“Gwen,” comes a voice from behind him, one that Peter’s starting to recognise. “Took me forever to find y’all.”

“Not my fault you’re shit at directions,” Gwen replies. “Guys, this is Harley.”

Harley drops into the open seat next to Peter, and Peter’s almost certain Harley hasn’t recognised him yet.

“So, introductions, that’s Ned, he’s in for comp sci,” Ned and Harley shake hands across the table. “Betty does journalism.”

“Hi, Harley,” Betty says, small smile up their face. “They/them pronouns.”  
  
From the corner of his eye, Peter sees Harley nod. “He/him, for the record.”

“And beside you is—”

“—Peter,” Harley cuts Gwen off. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Peter laughs, shrugs. “Hey, man, small world.”

The rest of their tablemates look confused, Gwen swinging her head back and forth between them. “You two know each other?”

“Yeah, we both TA for Professor Stark.”

“I can’t believe you still call him that,” Harley says. “Or does the old man make you?”

“It’s weird, just like—calling him Tony.”

“Ah,” Harley says knowingly, tapping the side of his nose. “You’ve still got first-year-itis.”

Peter blushes, rolls his eyes, doesn't admit that it's true.

“So, how did y’all meet?”

“We took stats together, first year,” Peter says, circling a finger around to encompass him, Gwen, and Ned. “Betty and Ned are dating.”

“Harley used to work at Darwin’s, we met when I accidentally dropped by cup of coffee all over him.” Gwen says, name dropping their favourite café.

“Thank the lord it was iced, Stacy,” from the corner of his eye Peter sees Harley shoot Gwen a wink.

“No way. That means you know the _secret blend,”_ Ned says it in a way that sounds like kid-in-a-toy-store kind of reverence, which is totally valid, in Peter’s book—the secret blend refers to Darwin’s signature coffee that’s gotten them all through more late nights that they can count.

Harley nods, hair drifting into his eyes in a way that Peter definitely ignores. “I do.”

“Can you tell me?”  
  
“It’ll cost you, Ned.”

Ned, completely and utterly unironically starts digging around his bag for his wallet. “I’m not kidding, I’d do anything for those coffees.”

Peter sees Harley’s eyebrows shoot up, can’t help but laugh.

“Ned’s the one who introduced us to Darwin’s," Peter explains through his laughter, trying not completely lose it least they get kicked out. "Would probably marry the secret blend if he could.”

Ned pulls out a twenty-dollar bill, only slightly crumpled, brandishes it at Harley across the table like a sword. “Is this enough?”

“I don’t think I’m actually legally allowed to tell you,” Harley says, and Peter can basically _feel_ the heartbreak shining across Ned’s face. “But, if you ever find yourself in my apartment, I’ll make you a cup for free.”

Ned nods, entirely serious. “Done deal, Harley.”

“A pleasure doing business with you, Ned.”

“At least that explains the coffee cups.”  
  
Harley quirks an eyebrow. “Coffee cups?”

“The ones on your desk?” Peter explains, head titling to the side. “There’s never less than four hidden amongst all your paperwork at any given moment, Harley.”

“So, about as bad as you,” MJ snarks from beside him, turning up out of nowhere, dropping her bag with a loud thud in the only open seat left at the table. “We’re a group of caffeine addicts.”

Peter jumps. “ _Jesus_ , MJ, give a guy some warning.”

“You don’t need it.”

The rest of the table laughs, bar Harley, who sits with a look of confusion Peter’s never seen on his face before. 

“Anyways, Harley, this is Michelle,” Peter says, leaning back to look MJ in the eye. “MJ, this is Harley, please be nice, he knows the secret blend from Darwin’s, and Ned will be very sad if you scare him off.”

Ned actually agrees with him at that, even as MJ’s lips twitch into a smirk. “I’ll try my best.”

MJ shakes Harley’s hand. “You may call me MJ.”

Ned and Peter both erupt in protest, even as Gwen and Betty laugh.

“I feel like I’m missing something,” Harley says, running a hand through his hair. “But I realise I’ve been honoured, if those two carrying on is any indication.”  
  
“You’d be right,” Gwen says. “Only MJ’s friends are allowed to call her MJ.”

“Ah, got it. Well, in that case, thank you, ma’am,” Harley nods sagely, the way he says it is all Southern charm, has been since the minute he sat down if Peter’s being honest, and it’s something incredible to watch, those honeyed words, the imaginary tip of a hat in MJ's direction that has the table cracking up laughing again. The way Harley’s already fitting into their little mismatched gang of STEM and humanities students, already making MJ laugh, has already gained Ned’s admiration if purely because of his history with Darwin’s.

Once they’ve all calmed down, Peter fills MJ in on what she’s missed—how he knows Harley, how Harley knows Gwen, and it takes his most powerful puppy dog eyes to get her to not spill how _they_ know her. Somehow it works, and Peter thanks his lucky stars that it remains a mystery, that particular Tuesday night of fresher week.

They’re all well into studying now. Engineering formula’s blur in front of Peter’s eyes. It takes almost his entire concentration to focus on the sheet in front of him rather than Harley beside him. Ten minutes pass and Peter’s made no progress, huffs a sigh that has Harley’s attention on him.

“Is that for Laufeyson?” Harley asks, leaning just enough in Peter’s space that he gets a whiff of the most delicious cologne he’s ever smelt. “Electrochem?”

It takes Peter a moment to process, too caught up in the scent of something equal parts richly floral, dark, and elusive spice, is impressed with himself when he manages to blurt out some words. “Yeah—yes, how’d you know?”

“I took it last year, thought it was a senior course though?”

“Yeah I um—" Peter runs a sheepish hand through his curls. “I’m technically doing an accelerated course of study? Like I’m still graduating next year, but uh, I tested out of some of the introduction courses? And Professor Stark spoke to the faculty and got me in early to a couple of the senior electives.”

“No wonder you’re a junior tutoring a freshman course, darlin', you’re a genius.”  
  
Peter flushes. Whether it’s from the _darlin’_ or the praise he can’t tell. Resolutely ignores the rest of the table when they laugh at him sinking down in his chair, brain short-circuiting at the rakish grin Harley sends his way as he does.

Peter loses track of time, sitting there at their table, barely even notices when Ned and Betty leave, or when Gwen does half an hour later for class. MJ is the last to go, apart from Peter and Harley themselves. MJ shoots him a look, something equal parts unreadable and clearly pointed, and if Peter didn’t know her half as well as he does, he wouldn’t be able to read the clear assumption in her eyes. Shifts his attention back to Harley, who’s in the middle of explaining this one particular equation that Peter’s only pretending to have trouble with, ignores the way MJ rolls her eyes as she goes.

Harley’s pointing out different equations, leaning against his shoulder, chicken-scratch handwriting filling the spaces between Peter’s crisp notes, and Peter's only feigning at the numbers on the page at this point. But sue him, it’s been a while since he’s done reactions or had someone this attractive pay him attention.

Peter is, for lack of a better phrase, absolutely fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know anything about science & we r not talking about how i'm writing this in the middle of what's basically my finals week; expect a long ass note at the end of chap 3. if ur seeing this twice it's because ao3 hates me and i had to repost :) find me [@volantium](https://volantium.tumblr.com), will probably post a sneak peak of chap 2 sometime soon 👀


	2. Chapter 2

Peter’s walking back from his biomolecular lab a week later, when Harley calls out his name from across the quad.

“How was your lab?” Harley asks, jogging to catch up. “You just finished, right?”

“Exhausting.”

“Darwin’s, then?”  
  
“God, yes,” Peter all but whines. “I’m desperate for some caffeine right now, who would have thought kinetics would be so draining.”

[“You smell like isopropyl alcohol](https://arystocrat.tumblr.com/post/627337061773475840/im-weak-for-wholesome-aus-and-modern-clothing), gorgeous.” Harley’s voice twists with something Peter doesn’t want to think about, least it incites hope in his _oh-god-I-have-a-crush-on-Harley_ hindbrain that he still isn’t willing to acknowledge. Doesn’t think about how ever since that day in the library Harley’s been dropping all kinds of different pet names, each one making Peter blush more than the last. _Darlin'_ makes the most appearances, draws out Harley’s subtle accent with it; _sweetheart_ has come up a few times, is probably Peter’s favourite, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it; _gorgeous_ is a new one that has Peter going blank. 

Peter stops in the middle of the quad, turning to face Harley. “What?”

He means it in question of the casual _gorgeous,_ because he’s well aware of the slight ethanol smell clinging to him. Harley shrugs, doesn’t offer any explanation. Peter looks at him, wondering if Harley knows what he’s even asking. Misses the way Harley blushes when he turns away and resumes walking.

“So, what else are you taking, apart from electochem and biomolecular engineering?”

“Well, you already know I’m in electrochem and bimolecular eng,” Peter says. “So, those, polymer engineering—which is my jam, by the way—and then immunology as an elective. You?”

“Slaving my way through my senior project.”

Peter makes a consoling noise, because even though his is still a year out, he already has Professor Stark harking at him to think about it, even though Peter’s already spoken to him about bringing on Dr Banner as a secondary supervisor, to align with Peter’s interest in polymer synthesis and self-healing nanocomposites.

“But I saved one of my first-year credits for intro physics, though,” Harley continues. “My brain hasn’t entirely melted yet.”

Peter laughs at that—how they’re both taken courses the other has already done, how they have the same mentor, how they’ve got mutual friends, how it’s taken them this long to finally meet.

“We should trade notes, your electrochem for my intro notes from two years ago seems fair to me,” Peter deadpans, because it’s not a fair trade at all, but he’s still half serious. “Or we could catch up in the library and study sometime?”

 _Call it fate_ , Peter thinks, glancing at Harley, because there’s no way Harley isn’t thinking the exact same thing about coincidences and missed connections and serendipity that Peter is, with the way his head is thrown back in laughter, hair shining gold in the afternoon sun. 

“Sure,” Harley agrees. “I was actually thinking we could grab coffee and grade some papers?”

“That sounds like a good idea.”

“I’ve been known to have them,” Harley winks at him, and _god_ , Peter wasn’t expecting the full force of that turned on him today.

Peter follows Harley across the quad, walking towards Darwin’s. The café is tucked between the main science building but behind the chemistry labs. Peter knows Ned only found it because of his intro to compsci class he took in the former back in his first year. Most of Peter’s classes have been in the engineering building, halfway across the other side of campus. It’s really only been this year that Peter’s spent time here, and that’s only because the TA offices are up on the fifth floor.

Harley holds the door open for him, a move that Peter can’t tell is intentional or force of habit. Either way, it has Peter brushing up against him, shoulder catching Harley’s jacket as he walks in.

Darwin’s is typically empty this time of day. Mid-afternoon just after the lunch rush, quiet enough with the white noise of the espresso machine that Peter still gets a considerable amount of work done whenever he’s here. He’s not sure how well he’s be able to focus in Harley’s company, though.

“Harley! The usual, man?”

Peter’s too busy looking at the menu to notice how the girl tilts her head towards him in clear question, or the way Harley rolls his eyes in reply, as if she’s already assumed they’re more than just friends.

“Yeah, thanks, Yaz,” Harley’s fishing his wallet out of his pocket, turning to him. “What’re you having, darlin’?”

“Can I get a secret-blend caramel iced mocha and a white-choc raspberry muffin, please?” Peter asks the cashier before his brain can connect the implication of his quick answer, the pet name, and the fact that Harley’s card is already between his fingers.

Peter fumbles for his own wallet when he notices Harley’s ready to pay. “Oh, no—I can grab it, don’t worry.”

“Nah, I was the one who suggested coffee.”  
  
“Yeah, but I’m the one who said I could do with some.”  
  
“Peter, it’s fine.”

_“Harley—"_

“Let Harley pay, trust me,” Yaz cuts in with a wink. “He likes treating his dates.”

“We’re not—” Peter flushes, words stalling in his throat at the hand Harley presses against the small of his back in order to reach around and swipe his card over the reader. “We’re just grading some papers.”  
  
Harley chuckles warmly in his ear, which has Peter blushing all over again, even as the transaction goes through and they find a table in front of the windows.

Peter drops his face into his hands the second he sits down, mortified, unable to even look at Harley.

“Don’t mind Yaz,” Harley says, and when Peter looks up, he’s pulling a laptop out of his bag, and Peter's grateful for it, the way Harley _isn't_ looking at him. “She likes being a pain in my ass because I won’t set her up with Gwen.” 

As if that makes any sense to Peter. Before he can reply Yaz is setting their coffee down, disappearing to grab their food.

She winks, again, at Peter, as she places his muffin on the table. “Enjoy your not-date, boys.”

Peter hides his flaming face in his glass.

“Anyways—”

“So how—”

They talk over each other, because of course they do, and somehow that just makes Peter’s face grow warmer even as Harley laughs. 

“You first, darlin’,” Harley says, which doesn’t help in the slightest.

Peter takes a sip of his more-sugar-than-coffee concoction to buy himself some time. “I was going to ask, how did you get into engineering?”

Harley brightens, launches into an explanation of understanding numbers and equations better than himself, cites that cheesy-but-accurate line from Pacific Rim about numbers being the closest thing to the handwriting of God. Mentions his eidetic memory and how machines just made so much more sense to him as a kid, playing around with the dud engine his mom kept in their garage for reason Harley doesn’t know but is so thankful for. Asks Peter the same thing, and doesn’t interrupt once as Peter talks a mile a minute about how originally he wanted to do biomedical engineering and then realised that chemicals in general were more his speed. 

The thing is, Peter _knows_ he falls hard and fast. Always has, always will. Knows that punch-drunk feeling of a summer crush almost as intimately as he does the fluttering feeling of his anxiety curling around his spine. May’s always told him he has a big heart—perhaps too big, looking back, with how some things have turned out—that he always has so much love to give. Peter falls in love with people all the time; that girl with the blue hair on the subway a few months ago, the guy who sat across from him at the library the other day, the way he’s kind of in love with Ned because who wouldn’t be, that month-long crush he had on MJ before she came out to him. Peter knows what he’s like.

But the thing about Harley Keener is that Peter’s only known him for a month, but it feels like years, and even though they don’t really know much about each other yet, Peter thinks maybe they’ll be able to. Thinks he could get used to the way Harley calls him pet names and the way Harley seems to treat everyone with a ten-foot pole but somehow has already let Peter in under his skin.

They don’t end up doing any work the entire hour and a half they’re at the café for before Harley has to leave for class, and Peter can’t even bring himself to regret the pile of homework he has to stay up late to grade.

* * *

A frat house is really kind of the last place Peter wants to be right now, where time blurs from Friday night to early Saturday morning, bass thumping and the smell of alcohol drifting through the air.

Except Gwen was going, which meant that Betty was going, which meant that Ned just had to drag Peter along with.

It’d started off alright, the four of them hanging out. There’s sketchy looking brownies just chilling on the kitchen counter. A game of beer pong going on in front of the television, probably not the wisest place. There’s too many people here for Peter to really relax, but it’s fine.

It’s fine.

He’s been nursing the same cup of jungle juice for the better part of an hour. Gwen disappeared a while ago, and Ned and Betty are getting up to who-knows-what in the back corner. Peter's leaning against the wall, when he spots Harley across the room.

He’s standing with a guy Peter doesn’t know.

But the guy’s leaning _just_ too close to Harley, a full body movement, arms uncrossing. It takes Peter a couple of seconds to process, when the guys leans in even more and whispers in Harley’s ear. Peter watches with a kind of detached cognisance as his fingers curl around Harley’s bicep.

Something twists its way through Peter’s lungs, climbing up his throat, hot flush spilling across his cheeks. Peter realises with a start that it’s _jealously_ causing his chest to tighten. He watches Harley laugh, head thrown back, wishes with a hot swirl of anger that it was _him_ making Harley laugh like that, that carefree sound that Peter’s started to crave.

“Look what we have here,” Peter hears, offside, turns to see Flash Thompson in front of him.

“Flash,” Peter replies dryly.

It’s been a while since he last saw Flash. Or would it be more accurate to say it’s been while since the last time Flash saw him and decide to make Peter’s life a living hell?

Over Flash’s shoulder, Peter watches Harley trail after his—friend.

“How’ve you been, Penis?” Flash asks rhetorically. “Still cheating in your exams?”

Peter _knows_ that Flash knows that Peter’s never cheated a day in his life, but in the years they’ve known each other, Peter’s never not been able to rise to bait. It’s evolved over the years; Peter’s no longer the small, quiet kid he was in high school, has come out of his shell a bit since starting college.

“You know I’m in advanced classes right, Flash?” Peter says with a tilt of his head. “Oh, right, you wouldn’t, because you’re not in them.”

Peter pushes past Flash, making his way outside, but he knows it’s futile.

Flash follows him.

It’s that Parker luck, Peter tells himself later, once everything’s over.

But now it’s—Flash grabs him by the collar of his shirt, jerking him backwards.

“You better fucking listen to me, Parker.” Flash says, pushing him until Peter’s back is against the brick wall. “You don’t know what you’re messing with.”

Peter struggles not to laugh, because he’s known Flash since they were thirteen and it’s been almost eight years of this—Flash is all bark and no bite, too concerned about his image and standing and everything else to lower himself to actual physical violence. But even this is new, and Peter can smell the alcohol on Flash’s breath, so maybe.

Maybe.

“Just you and your family’s money, right, Flash?” Maybe Peter doesn’t know when to quit while he’s ahead. “Didn’t stop me from getting here, did it?”

Peter knows he’s being reckless but really—it’s been eight years of this, and he’s all green-eye-monstered over Harley, and he’s got to take his anger out somehow, just happens to be Flash, who out of all people, probably deserves a bit of Peter’s thinly veiled sass.

“You’re nothing, Parker.”

It’s not the first time Peter’s heard that one.

“You’re right, Flash,” he says, tone going soft, because after _eight years_ he’s learnt it’s just better to agree, even if he’s sick of it.

A smug kind of look crosses over Flash’s face, and Peter so desperately wishes he could punch it off. Flash opens his mouth to say something and—

“Hey, how about you fuck off?” The unmistakable twang of Harley’s accent colours the words, and Peter doesn’t even know how to feel about that, that Harley’s popped up out of nowhere after Peter _just_ watched him disappearinto the depths of the frat house, hand caught by the guy he was talking to.

Harley appears in his peripheral, over Flash’s shoulder, anger etched in every line of his face.

Flash, still pinning Peter to the wall by the collar of his jacket, turns his head, shoots Harley a glare. “Who’re you?”

“Someone you don’t want to piss off,” Harley says, except it comes out gravelly and low, the words running together, _want to_ turning into _wanna_ and off sounding more like _awf._ “Let him go.”

“What’s this, huh? Penis? You finally have a friend?”

“Flash, just go away.”  
  
“Oh? So, you’re finally getting some balls? Want to show off for your boyfriend?”

Harley takes a step forward, which has Peter shaking his head violently, warning him off. “Harley, don’t – no, it’s not worth it – I’m _fine.”_

“Yeah, Harley,” Flash drawls, except it’s a sick mocking, his voice pitched high in imitation. “Parker’s just fine.”

Peter’s shaking his head at Harley over Flash’s shoulder, tries desperately to convey _don’t get involved_ with the wild twist of his neck.

“Peter?” Harley says, but Peter doesn’t know what the question is, too preoccupied with the wall digging into his back.

“Fuck off,” Flash grits out, and makes the mistake of looking over his shoulder and into Harley’s burning eyes. 

Harley takes a step forward, and Flash flinches so hard Peter’s able to slip from his grip. Peter slides himself out from under Flash’s arm, and stands beside Harley.

Harley, being Harley, steps in front of Peter just slightly, as if he can physically protect Peter.

“He’s a slut, you know, won’t stay loyal.” Flash says, and Peter _sees_ Harley tense, and prays to any god that will listen for Flash to shut the fuck up. “He’ll sleep around with anyone.”

Peter opens his mouth to reply to that, except Harley beats him to it.

“You want to say that again?”

Flash takes a step forward. “Yeah, I said that Penis is a greedy whore because he likes dick _and_ pussy.”

“What’s your fucking problem, man?” Peter doesn’t miss the way Harley cracks his knuckles.

Peter would love to know the answer that question. Would like to know why Flash has decided to be this vindictive and nasty, this _biphobic_ —it’s not even the fact that Peter’s offended—it’d take much more than _Flash_ to offend him—but how many other kids has Flash tormented like this?

Flash sneers. “You’re one of _them,_ aren’t you? Another fag?”

“And what of it?” Harley’s voice is low, dangerous, his fists clenching.

 _That_ has Peter reeling. Sure, Harley’s never really said anything, and Peter’s picked up the context clues – but Harley’s also insanely Southern, despite the usual subtleness of his accent. And Harley has a reputation – equal parts polite and utterly scathing, not knowing what’s hit you until he’s done, _bless your heart, honey,_ dripping sickly-sweet, _but I’m afraid you’ve gone and fucked up real good, huh?_ is an actual sentence Peter’s heard him say, when they were catching up with Ned and Betty and that one dickhead noticed Betty’s non-binary flag pin and decided to open his fool mouth. So even though there’s been hints, Peter’s stopped himself from reading into it, over thinking, because Harley’s sexuality isn’t _his_ to know.

But actually hearing him admit it is another thing entirely.

Peter’s bi, Harley’s – something not straight. The bright spark of hope fizzles in his chest at the realisation that Harley’s never going to want _him._ Why would he? Peter’s nothing special, never has been, has lost nearly everyone he’s ever loved, and his breath starts catching in his throat but then Flash starts talking, drawing Peter out of his own head with the absolute idiocy of his next sentence.

“God, this school is fucking _infested_ with them, Jesus Christ, I take it back, you two deserve each other.” Flash sneers.

“Say shit like that again, and you’ll regret it.”

“Regret it?” Flash laughs, with all the high and mighty bravado of someone who’s never been taken down a peg. “Like you could do anything about it.”

Peter can’t even breath, let alone stop Harley from swinging his fist straight into Flash’s nose. Flash’s head snaps back with it, feet stumbling as Harley shoves him roughly against the brick wall.

Doesn’t think about how Harley’s so far up the chain in the engineering department—is the teaching assistant coordinator for the entire science department on top of being in his fifth year—and could definitely get Flash kicked out with a well-placed word and not think twice about it. Doesn’t think about how that punch is going to mean the end of that, the end of both of their short-lived careers as teacher’s assistants if Flash so much as thinks about pressing chargers or going to campus police. Doesn’t think about how watching Harley now has something low and vindictive curling at the base of his spine, something tainted with revenge as Flash’s head knocks against the wall.

There’s a collective gasp behind him. Peter knows if he turns around the entire party will be there, gawking and gossiping and this’ll spread like wildfire, across the entire university by the end of the week.

“Never come near me again,” Harley’s voice is all but a growl, louder in the room than should be possible with the music still playing. “Never come near _Peter_ again.”

Flash doesn’t say anything. Harley pushes him further into the wall, the brick probably digging sharp and hard into Flash’s back. Flash whimpers.

“What’d I say?”

Flash’s face is a bloody mess, but Peter thinks he finally gets the message, because he loses that defiant tilt to his head, drops his eyes down. “To leave you alone.”

“And?”  
  
Flash’s eyes catch Peter’s over Harley’s shoulder. “To leave Peter alone.”

“Good,” Harley leans back, dark smirk marring his face. “See that you remember that.”

Harley let’s go of him, comically almost, like he’s been burnt, like he can’t stand the thought of having to touch Flash for a second longer. Harley turns around, doesn’t even look back as Flash sinks down to the floor, knees giving out now that Harley isn’t there to hold him in place.

There’s a smear of blood across his white shirt from where Harley gripped him.

“C’mon, Peter,” Harley’s hand clenches around his elbow, dragging him away and out of the house.

Peter follows him in a daze, doesn’t even process when Harley’s hand leaves his elbow to tangle their fingers together, pulls them into the engineering building with a swipe of his ID card and into the staff-only bathroom, empty at two in the morning.

“Are you okay?” Harley asks him, stepping away.

“Am I—what?” Peter shakes his head, blinks against the harsh fluorescents. “Harley you just—you’re _bleeding_ and you’re asking if I’m okay?”

Harley twists his hand around, flexing his fingers, and Peter’s too caught up in the harsh, bright red smear across his knuckles to notice him step closer into his personal space.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Harley shakes his head. “What even was that?”

“What was what?” 

Harley waves an explosive hand in the general direction of the frat house. “That—that _asshole,_ why did no one stop him?”

“I—I don’t need you fighting my battles, Harley.”  
  
“He had you pinned to a wall, Peter!” Harley drags his bloody hand down his face. “What was I meant to do? Just pretend like I didn’t see my friend getting assaulted?”

“I had it under control.”

Harley snorts. “Yeah, that’s definitely what it looked like.”

“It’s just Flash,” Peter says as if that’s some kind of explanation, as if Harley even knows who Flash is.

“The things he said, Peter, that’s so fucked up.” Harley looks at him, his eyes a piercing, ice-blue. “How long has this been going on?”

"It's _nothing,_ Harley."

“Don’t lie to me, or I’ll ask MJ.”

Which is the absolute last thing Peter wants because he _knows_ MJ will be on Harley’s side, and Peter knows Harley knows this too.

Peter lets out a sigh. “Flash and I went to high school together. It kind of hasn’t stopped.”

The way Harley goes deathly silent has shivers racking across Peter’s shoulders.

Peter doesn’t know what to think—doesn’t really like the fact that in Harley’s anger-concern- _whatever-the-fuck-is-going-on-in-his-brain_ has caused him to drop the pet names Peter’s so used to—doesn’t even remember the last time Harley called him by his name when it’s just the two of them, it’s been that long, _darlin’, sweetheart,_ and _gorgeous_ swirling around in his brain so much that he misses it. Hates this reminder that they’re only just friends. Hates that Harley’s knuckles are a bloody mess because of _him,_ hates that Harley just risked his job because of _him,_ hates that they’re even here at all because of _him,_ hates the way that panic crawls up his throat and chokes him.

He can’t breathe. Peter can’t breathe, his ribcage can’t expand fast enough, his lungs can’t fill fast enough, there’s a weight holding him down, an anchor on his chest.

His hands are shaking.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Harley’s voice is suddenly soft, quiet and tender. “Peter, darlin’, it’s okay.”

Peter can’t get the words out, chokes on them too.

“Can I touch you?” He hears Harley ask, jerks his head in some semblance of a nod.

Peter feels Harley’s hand close around one of his own, brings it to rest against his ribcage so Peter can feel each movement as Harley breathes, once, expanding, twice, and down. 

“You got to breathe, sweetheart,” Harley says, accent tangling around the words. “Follow mine, okay? In and out.”

Harley’s hand settle either side of Peter’s neck, fingers sliding into the edge of Peter’s curls. His thumb traces a small circle behind Peter’s left ear, and it’s that point of contact Peter focuses on.

The rise and fall of his hand against Harley’s side helps, something like a physical tether, reminding him to breathe, that it’s _easy_ to follow.

In, out.

In, out. 

He doesn’t know how long they stand there, breathing together. Eventually, the fog of his panic lifts, and Peter comes back to himself, numb all over. His hand is twisted something awful in Harley’s shirt, crinkling it to hell and back. He lets go, tries to flatten it out against Harley’s side. Harley’s hands slip from Peter’s neck, and he doesn’t want to think about how he already misses it, the warm heat of his palm, how easy it felt, the soft slide of Harley’s fingers in his hair.

“Jesus,” he rasps out, voice raw from disuse or the attack he can’t tell. “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologise.”

Peter lets out a small laugh, a bitter and self-deprecating sound. “Yeah, I do.”

But Harley just shakes his head, lips pursing. “Nope, not to me, Parker.”  
  
“Okay, okay,” Peter concedes, not willing to put up a fight. “How’s your hand?”

Harley brings it up between them, wiggles his fingers dramatically. Peter reaches over to grab some paper towel, runs it under the cold water. Harley hisses sharp between his teeth when Peter first presses the towel against his knuckles.

“Alright?”

“I’ve had worse, darlin’, don’t you mind.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Peter says with a roll of his eyes, gently turning Harley’s hand this way and that to dab the blood off. “Bad boy Harley Keener, huh?”

“Baddest boy in all of Rose Hill, Tennessee,” Harley says, with just enough of a hint of truth underneath that has Peter itching to ask, but tonight’s been too much-too fast already.

This is familiar territory—vaguely, never mind the fact that Peter’s currently tending to Harley’s bloody knuckles—the flirting, the easy push-and-pull they’ve settled into in between grading and studying together.

“Oh, I bet,” Peter grabs a fresh paper towel, wrapping it around Harley’s hand. “Let that breathe later, okay?”

“Thanks, darlin’.”

“Least I could do, Harl,” Peter says, soft, something vulnerable coating his throat, doesn’t even notice the nickname that slips out. “Thank you.”

“You let me know if that Flash guy bothers you again, okay?” Harley says, shrugging the leather jacket back onto his shoulders.

Peter smiles at him, toothy with a slight edge. “I have a feeling he won’t anymore.”

* * *

“Harley?” Peter says, taking a step forward towards the hunched over figure in Harley’s signature hoodie and leather jacket combo.

Peter had been walking back to the dorms after a late-night study session with Ned, edging closer to midnight than not when he notices him, sitting in the damp grass. He doesn’t think it’s Harley at first, can’t really tell in the dim light, but the head shoots up at the name.

“Peter?” Harley’s voice is hoarse, choked. “What—what are you doing here?”

Peter sits beside him on the curb. “Are you alright?”

“I—um,” Harley wipes a hand over his eyes, and it’s then Peter notices that they’re bloodshot and red, like he’s been crying. “Just out, y'know?”

“Want to talk about it?”

Harley glances at him from the side. “Ask me anything other than that.”

“How’d you end up a fifth-year? You don’t have to tell me—I mean, if you don’t want to, though.” 

Harley’s eyes flick over his face, carefully blank, and Peter wishes he could read him better, know why he’s out here alone and distressed in the middle of the night. Peter fiddles with the sleeves of his hoodie. Has the sinking feeling that he’s asked the one other question Harley doesn’t want to answer.

Harley’s eyes drop back to his lap. “Middle of my junior year, I had to move back to Tennessee for a bit, but they wouldn’t let me take a leave of absence.”

“What, why not?”  
  
“Something about my scholarship, but my grades dropped anyways so like, fucking pointless, y’know?”

“That sucks, man.”

“Tell me about it. My – uh,” Harley runs a hand through his hair, breath catching. “My ma passed away from cancer. I had to take care of my sister.”

A million things to say flash through Peter’s mind at that, but instead he just sits in silence, and lets Harley talk. 

“The reason why I’m out here,” Harley waves his hand in front of his face in a _like-this_ gesture. “Abby’s been having a rough time at school and it’s kind of—I hate not being there for her.”

“What year is she in?”

“She’s a junior, so you know, picking what she wants to do after school and what classes to take next year and shit. It’s just, she took our mom’s death hard, and—and it’s so _difficult_ being halfway across the country from her.”

Peter doesn’t say sorry, doesn’t offer platitudes, because he _knows_ what it’s like. He knows what it’s like to lose a parent, has done it three times over, between his mom and dad and Ben. He knows what it’s like to stand there, at their funeral and hear everybody tell you how they’re so sorry for your loss, as if that loss is something to be measured in words as quaint as _sorry._ He knows what it’s like to be pitied, knows what the burning hatred of wanting anything _but_ feels like, and Peter knows him well enough that any words out of his mouth along those lines will shut Harley right back up again.

“My mom and dad died when I was four,” is what comes out of Peters mouth instead, almost involuntary. “Watched my uncle bleed out in front of me when I was twelve.”

Harley blinks at him, eyes hazy, and Peter wonders if it was the wrong thing to say before cutting off that specific train of thought and bouldering on. “My aunt, May, she’s the closest thing I have to a parent and—” Peter’s voice hitches, as is inevitable, because talking about Ben still kind of hurts more than he’s willing to admit, even a decade on. “We both lost something that day, but I wouldn’t be here if not for her. I’m uh, I’m not explaining this well but, I’m sure you and your sister know what that’s like.”

Peter shuts his mouth with an audible click. Harley blinks at him some more. All Peter can think about is how much he hadn’t anticipated dropping his sad backstory on Harley’s already shaking shoulders.

“You didn’t have to tell me that.”

Peter looks at him, can’t quite get a read on Harley’s face in the dim streetlights. “I wanted to. So you know aren’t alone.”

“Thanks, darlin’,” Harley says, softly, barely a whisper between them that Peter strains to hear.

“It’s okay.”

“So, anyways,” Harley clears his throat. “Tony pulled some strings, managed to extend my scholarship and my enrolment, despite my grades dropping, and now I’m in my fifth year.”

“More time to work on your senior thesis, I guess.”

Harley chuckles. “Thank the lord for that.”  
  
And really, Peter should be going, it’s almost midnight, but there’s something about it—maybe it’s the chill that doesn’t feel cold at all sitting here with Harley, or maybe it’s the fact that it is so late, or maybe it’s the fact they haven’t had a proper conversation since the night of that frat party _,_ or maybe it’s just the fact that Peter’s too caught up in the gorgeous, kind-hearted boy from Tennessee to see straight that has him asking, “Tell me about it?”  
  
“Only if I get to walk you home,” Harley twists his wrist to look at his watch, lighting up his face in the dark. “It’s like almost eleven-thirty.”

“What a gentleman, Mister Keener.”  
  
“Only for you, Mister Parker,” Harley laughs, a lighter sound than before, propping an elbow out in that way that’s got Peter’s already threading his arm through before the decision fully registers in his head.

They meander across the quad in the vague direction of Peter’s building, which he knows is in the opposite direction of Harley’s. Between that and the late hour, warmth spirals down his neck and along his spine.

“So, it’s on nanotechnology,” Harley says, and the later it gets the more noticeable his accent becomes. “Specifically, how to make things invisible via retro-reflective material. Tony’s been real helpful.”

“Dude, that’s sick? How are you testing it?”  
  
Peter leans into Harley, just enough that his elbow is tucked against Peter’s ribcage, and before Peter knows it, they’ve walked the near-twenty minute trek to his building. Harley hasn’t stopped talking once since Peter asked him about his senior project, and Peter’s both glad to hear him talk about it—mainly because it’s fucking _cool,_ but also because it means he’s not thinking about being away from his sister and Tennessee.

Harley walks him all the way up to his door, all the way up the six flights of stairs that Peter dreads every day, justifies it by telling Peter it’s because his mama raised him to be a nice Southern gentleman.

“Well, this is me,” Peter fishes out his keys from his pocket. “Message me when you get home, yeah? It’s late.”

Harley hums, a noise of assent. “Thank you, for tonight, darlin’. It really means a lot to me.”

Peter opens the door to a dark apartment, his roommate Harry here less and less each day. He stands in the doorway, back turned to Harley, and he is so, _so_ tempted to invite him inside, but even as the thought flashes through his mind, Peter knows it’s a bad idea.

He turns around, hand on the doorknob.

“Have a good night, Harley,” Peter says, not thinking about how easy it would be to stand up on his tiptoes and press a kiss to Harley’s cheek in thanks.

He doesn’t.

Even if he maybe—definitely—wants to.

Even if he’s willing to acknowledge it now, the not-so-small crush he has on Harley. 

Thinks maybe, if the soft look on Harley’s face is anything to go by, then he’s not the only no longer refusing to think about it.

But, alas.

“G’night,” Harley replies.

Peter shuts the door. 

* * *

Peter’s walking back to his dorm after the gym when he suddenly remembers the gala that weekend.

 _The_ gala, held by the university, set to honour the incredible achievements of the science department over the last year.

 _The_ gala, that Peter has an invitation to because he’s on the teaching staff, and definitely not because his mentor happens to be Tony Stark, who’s made leaps and bounds in the field of mechanical engineering sometimes even Peter can’t keep up.

 _The_ gala, Peter realises, more with a sinking feeling rather than the first sense of urgency, that Harley will also be attending, by virtue of his similar status as a tutor and not his close proximity to Professor Stark.

It is, with all these thoughts running through his head, that leads Peter to asking Harley if he wants to go with.

“So, I was thinking,” Peter says as he slides into the seat across from Harley at their usual table at Darwin’s.

“Dangerous, that,” Harley smirks at him. “Be careful.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Shut up, Keener. Anyways—”

Yaz appears out of nowhere, setting down Peter’s usual order and that—maybe that should make something click, that he and Harley are here often enough _together_ for either Yaz to just _know_ to start making his iced coffee or for Harley to just automatically order it for him, because they definitely hadn't planned this.

He takes a sip, thinking about anything _other_ than that.

“Anyways, you know the gala?”

“Yes,” Harley says slowly, gives him a look, one that looks like he knows what Peter’s about to say next. “You forgot, didn’t you?” 

Peter shouldn’t even be surprised. He gives sheepish nod.

“Christ, Parker, what are we gonna do with you? Forget your head if it wasn’t screwed on.”

“I forgot, sue me—I had that electrochem exam to worry about—anyways, I was thinking,” Peter repeats for a third time, butterflies in his stomach. “Do you want to go together?”

There’s a charged moment of silence. Peter finds it kind of satisfying that he managed to catch Harley speechless, without some instant smart quip ready and waiting in reply. Takes a minute for Peter to process how it might sound until Harley opens his mouth. 

“Darlin’, that almost sounds like you’re asking me out.”

“Not—not like that _,” yes, yes like that_ , Peter thinks to himself. “I just thought considering we’re both Professor Starks students and it’s meant to be for the science department and, I mean, we’re probably the only two tutors who are actually going, and it’s totally cool if you don’t want to, or if you already are going with someone, I just thought—”

“Peter, sweetheart,” Harley cuts in. “I’ll go with you.”

“There’s the whole networking thing—wait, really?”

Harley shrugs. “Yeah, I mean, it’s going to be fucking boring but at least we can suffer together.”

“Right,” the butterflies in Peter’s stomach have only seemed to get worse. “I’ll—I’ll meet you there?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool,” Peter says.

“Cool,” Harley echoes, and somehow sensing that Peter wants to melt right into the concrete floor of Darwin’s, smiles brightly. “So, how’d that exam go?”

And as Peter sits there, chatting to Harley about the electrochem exam and that equation Harley just happened to help him with in the library that first time had popped up three questions in, he wonders what exactly he's gotten himself into. 

* * *

The next two days pass in a blur, one of which includes a late night train back to New York in order to fish a suit from the depths of his closet in the apartment. He gets weird looks on the train back on Saturday, but it’s worth just to see May for a few hours as she gets home from her night shift.

It’s somewhere around six in the morning. Far too early for young chemical engineering undergraduates to be awake, if you ask Peter. May should be home in an hour. Enough time for Peter to head down to Delmar’s and splurge on a breakfast burrito for himself, a couple of coffees—the traitorous part of his brain reminds him about Harley and Darwin’s and being _at_ Darwin’s with Harley and Peter _hates_ it—and a wrap for May. Peter’s barely sat the food on the counter when the front door opens.

“Peter!” May says, when she sees him the kitchen. “What are you doing here?”

Peter wraps her up in a hug, heaving a deep sigh. Nothing compares to a patented May Parker hug.

“Hi, Aunt May,” Peter mumbles into her hair. “Had to grab that penguin suit for the gala.”

“Oh, that’s tonight! I totally forgot!”

Peter laughs. “I did too, until two days ago.”

“So,” May takes a sip of much-needed coffee. “Are you going with anyone?”

Peter chokes on his food.

May looks at him amusedly, and Peter can feel the blush spreading up his neck. “I’ll take that as a yes?”

“It’s not—we aren’t going like _that_ ,” Peter says. “We’re just friends.”

“Ah, I see,” May says in that way of hers.

“Do not—May, he’s so far out of my league.”

“No one’s out of your league, baby.”  
  
“Yeah, except for—” Peter cuts himself off before he can say Harley’s name.

May grins at him.

“Eat your breakfast wrap,” he mutters, picking up his coffee, to the sound of May's sunshine-laughter.

By the time Peter actually gets back to campus, it’s closer to four in the afternoon. Two hours later and Peter’s already made his way into the hall, dressed to the nines. Harley’s texted him about five minutes ago, saying he's running late, which isn’t that unusual except for the fact that it's usually Peter’s line. Peter hangs out near the bar for a while, nursing a glass of Sprite seeing as his twenty-first is still a few weeks away.

He runs into Professor Stark eventually, making his way around the room and trying to not be too obvious in his search for Harley, who’s nearly forty five minutes late at this point. Gets introduced to the circle of people that Professor Stark is with, and before he can figure it out, Peter’s on the dancefloor, being spun around by a lady he can’t even remember the name of. He thinks she’s from one of the admin teams. She’s talking a mile a minute, something about someone and this and that and Peter’s desperate for a way out until he feels the tap on his shoulder.

“Sorry, darlin’, but may I interrupt?” Comes Harley’s voice from behind him, and Peter’s never felt so relieved in his life.

The woman’s eyes flash, something predatory, and she holds out a hand in Harley’s direction. “You most certainly may.”

Peter can’t tell if he wants to laugh or cry.

“I wasn’t talking to you.” Is Harley’s blunt reply, the hand he places on Peter’s side a warm, welcoming comfort, and Peter definitely feels like laughing—maybe even melting, a bit—when Harley winds that hand around to rest on Peter’s hip, leans in to whisper against the curve of Peter’s ear, loud enough that what’s-her-name can still hear. “Hiya, gorgeous.”

The lady leaves in a huff. Harley drags him further onto the dancefloor, arms twining around Peter’s waist. Peter’s own hands find themselves on Harley’s shoulders, eventually clasping together across the back of his neck. 

“ _Thank you,”_ Peter says, head tipping in an exasperated laugh. “My knight in shining armour.”

Harley smiles brightly down at him. “Glad to be of service, sweetheart.”

“You didn’t have to.”  
  
Harley hums in the back of his throat, a noise of acknowledgement Peter can’t decipher. They spin around the floor slowly. It feels almost natural, the glide they take up around the room, in between other couples dancing, Peter not unaware of how eyes track them across the floor and in between songs. He’s sure they make a decent picture. Harley is insanely attractive, probably more so in this dark plaid suit that anything else, the honest-to-god waistcoat, the way his wavy hair brushes his collar _just so_ , towering a whole head above Peter, who’s wearing that navy suit that Aunt May swears brings out the auburn in his chestnut-coloured hair and the flecks of gold in his eyes.

"Sorry I was late," Harley says towards the end of the song. "Abby rang." 

Peter smiles up at him. "She's your sister, Harl, you don't need to apologise." 

"Still," Harley rests his chin on top of Peter’s curls, and Peter kind of likes it, the sense of safety he has, wrapped up in Harley, his forehead tucked in the hollow of Harley’s throat like it belongs there, Harley’s cologne fragrant and mesmerising underneath it all. 

All it would take is a hand on the back of Harley’s neck, sliding his hand in those honey-blonde waves, moving his head perfectly so that their foreheads press together, a tilt of his chin to press their lips together. All it would take is for Harley to lift a hand from Peter’s waist, like he does now, cupping Peter’s cheek with the palm of his hand. Harley’s eyes are bright and crystal clear, and Peter’s never drowned but he thinks it would be similar to this, this all-encompassing blue, this feeling of a tidal, magnetic pull, down, down, _down_.

“Tell me you don’t want this, Peter.” Harley’s voice is a wrecked, ruined whisper that makes heat pool low in Peter’s gut. “Say no and I’ll stop.”

Peter doesn’t say a word.

Harley curls his fingers under Peter’s chin, and the fire alarm goes off.

And the fire alarm goes off.

It splits the air with a horrid screech. Harley stills, frozen, even as Peter flinches away from him. His heart is beating a mile a minute. Loud in his own ears, adrenaline-fused, thumping against his chest. The alarm rings louder. Then, the entire room erupts in chaos.

Peter can’t even smell any smoke, but that doesn’t stop every Tom, Dick, and Harry from shouting over each other, running around like it’s a game. Scant few have already made it outside, everyone else too concerned about their belongings despite what training exercises have taught them. Peter’s too far into the room to even consider leaving, trapped by the wall of people from between here and the doors. It takes Professor Romanov grabbing the microphone out of the stunned student’s hand for even a semblance of order to fall.

“Please exit the room in an orderly fashion and make your way to the quad,” she says, voice eerily calm and somehow cutting over the shrill tone of the alarm. “We have drills for a reason, people.”

Peter loses Harley, pushed away and across the room by too many people trying to barge through the doors all at once. Even once they reach the expanse of the quad, amidst the whine of police car and fire truck sirens, Peter can’t find him.

Smoke billows from the roof. Dark and heavy against the moonlight.

Peter’s heart doesn’t break, but it’s a close thing.


	3. Chapter 3

They don’t talk about it.

They don’t talk about it, the ruined almost-kiss at the gala.

They don’t talk about it, not over text, even when Harley messages him _you get home okay? lost you in the confusion_ later that night, not when Peter replies _ahah, yeah, that was crazy!_ and they most definitely do not talk about it in person.

They don’t even see each other, not for weeks, not in passing between labs and not in the TA office, not even at Darwin’s, or in the library. Peter’s half-convinced that Harley’s avoiding him, if only to convince _himself_ that _he’s_ not avoiding _Harley._ It’s so easy for him to say he’s busy—between tutoring, his own classes, catching the train to see May every other weekend—he is, but it seems easier now. Less excuse and more reason but still sinking heavily with guilt.

It’s Ned and Gwen who notice first, of course.

They’re in the library again, holed up in between the shelves at their usual corner table, when Gwen kind of drops a proverbial bomb and scatters Peter’s brain all over his bio textbook.

“So,” she says, in the middle of typing on her graphing calculator. “I saw Harley over the weekend. He says hi, Peter.”

It’s comical, the way Peter’s breath stutters in his lungs. “Uh—okay?”

“Uh, okay,” Gwen mimics. “You can’t avoid him forever.”

“I can definitely try,” Peter shoots back before he can think better of it.

“Nope, no—if you’re saying that then we’re definitely talking about it.”

Ned snorts, the traitor.

“ _Gwen_ , can we not,” Peter whines, ducking his head when she flicks a pen at him from across the table.

“What even happened, dude?” Ned asks, after he’s finished laughing under Peter’s glare. “It must be something big, because even _I’ve_ noticed you guys aren’t hanging out as much.”

Peter knows his face is turning red, can feel the heat from his cheeks. The thing is, he hasn’t said anything about the gala to anyone—everyone heard about the fire on the top floor, how some postdoc accidently left a candle of all things going in their office. He definitely hasn’t said a word about Harley, either. It doesn’t take much to figure out that Harley’s definitely told Gwen, though.

“Oh, do you not know—Peter can I tell him?” Gwen says with the same level of energy as a kid in a candy store.

It’s the out he needs, because there’s no way Peter’s ready to put _words_ to this thing that’s happened. He nods.

The smirk that crosses her face has Peter second guessing that decision. 

“Ned, _Ned,_ I can’t believe you don’t know,” Gwen is all but bouncing in her seat. “They kissed.”

“No—Gwen that’s not—”

 _“_ What? _Peter!_ ”

“Guys, _shut up_ or they’ll kick us out.”

“Okay,” Ned says, tone much softer than the loud screech from a second ago. “Peter, what?”

Peter tips his head back in a _god help me from telling my best friend about this giant fucking crush I have on my co-worker_ kind of way. The ceiling is just so fascinating.

“No, so they didn’t kiss,” Gwen picks back up. “But apparently—and this is only what Harley’s told me, Peter—it _almost_ happened because he saved you from dancing with this old woman? But then that fire happened and you guys, I don’t know, got separated or something?”

“Oh my god.”

“I know _,_ Ned, I _know.”_

“This conversation is far too chaotic for me,” he says, voice cold, in Gwen’s direction.

Gwen just makes a face at him. “You do not understand how annoyingly frustrating he is to deal with right now.”

“Harley?” Ned asks.

“Yeah, he’s like, losing his mind about it.”

That little titbit makes Peter squirm.

“What are you going to do?”

Peter doesn’t know how to answer Ned’s question. “We’ll run into each other eventually, I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it.”

“I don’t think that’s the right expression.”

“I said what I said,” Peter knows the difference between cross and burn, thank you very much.

“Do you _want_ something more, though, Peter?” Gwen asks, and Peter resides himself to this, sharing this secret. 

“Yeah," he says, taking a moment to pause under the weight of Ned's too-knowing gaze and Gwen's careful glee. "But he’s so far out of my league.”

Gwen scoffs. “You’re kidding yourself, Pete, he’s so gone on you.”

“No, he’s not.”

“You should’ve heard him talking about the gala, he absolutely is.”

"She's right," Ned says, as if Peter didn't watch him fumble through his crush on Betty a year and a half ago. "Betty keeps talking about how cute you two are." 

“ _Fuck,”_ he hisses, the world crumbling around his ears. “What do I do?”

“So, you _did_ want to kiss him, that night of the gala right? I don’t think we established that,” Ned has the gall to ask.

Peter resists the urge to crawl under the table. Barely. 

“Yeah, but—but I don’t want it to be a one-night thing,” Peter says, looking down at the blurring words of the page in front of him. “I like him too much for that.”

Ned gives him a look out of the corner of his eye. “Peter, buddy, I say this as your best friend, but you know—everyone _knows.”_

“Knows what?”  
  
“That you like _like_ Harley.”

Gwen nods beside him.

Peter feels like the rug’s been pulled out from under his feet.

“Do you think—” he has to take a breath. “Do you think Harley knows?”

“You two _almost kissed_. He knows,” Gwen says, voice turning serious. “But he’d never say anything until you’re ready, Peter, I promise.”

“Okay, okay. That’s good.” Peter says, lightly, with all the disquiet of having his entire world change with the knowledge that apparently Harley _knows._

He knows Gwen would never say anything, but Peter can’t help but overthink, imagines her meeting up with Harley and telling him everything that Peter’s just said. Imagines Harley's reaction to her embellished retelling of Peter's easy yet hesitant confession. And even though Gwen's just kind of said _said_ that Harley maybe likes him back—and that's something that'll rattle around in his mind for a while—there's still a small part of him that thinks Harley couldn't like him like that, hates him even, for the way Peter will probably—eventually, inevitably—ruin their friendship. 

“I won’t tell him,” and it’s like she’s just read his mind, with that small reassurance. “I swear on my finals.”

Peter smiles, a small and brittle thing. “Thanks, Gwen.”

Ned hadn’t need to say anything. Peter knows they’re on the same page.

Even Yaz asked, the few times he dropped into Darwin’s, her casual _hey, Peter, haven’t seen you with Harley lately?_ enough to make him spiral all over against, because it means that Harley been coming to the café by himself, and sure, he’s totally allowed to do that, but it was _their_ thing, _together,_ and Peter feels kind of anchorless with that knowledge.

He calls May, at one point, and spills everything. Tells her about how Harley was the person he was talking about when he picked up the suit, tells her about all the not-dates to Darwin’s, tells her about the frat party and resolutely ignores the pleased sound she makes when he tells her that Harley like, actually punched Flash, or the way Harley helped him through the resulting anxiety attack. May, in her infinite wisdom, just says _these things take time, baby, you two will work it out,_ as if that helps Peter’s impatient, lovesick, twenty-year-old brain any more than that conversation with Ned and Gwen in the library.

That is to say—not at all. It just makes him feel _worse_ about the entire situation.

And the thing is, Peter has to walk around campus, go to class, teach, try to study, all with the knowledge that Harley knows that Peter _likes_ him a bit too much to be _just_ friends, but is too much of a gentlemen to say anything because Peter—Peter’s still not quite ready to put words to it, to put his feelings out into the universe. There _are_ reasons for that, reasons he doesn’t want to think about, reasons tied up in the tangled ball of yarn that is his anxiety, and the way his brain thinks a hundred miles an hour, and the way that _they don’t talk about it._

They don’t talk about it, and it drives Peter up the fucking wall.

* * *

Peter’s on his third train of the day, and at his wits end.

Usually it only takes him the one to make it back to May’s apartment in Queens, but for some reason the world is hellbent on him not making it back in time for dinner. The first train hadn’t even arrived at all, something about a mechanical fault that Peter’s sure is just code for scheduling conflicts. The second train ends up being delayed and runs express three stops past where Peter usually gets off. Which leads him to the third one, doubling back to his stop.

It’s been an awful day all around. Woke up that morning to his roommate’s alarm going off at five in the morning, a whole three hours before Peter had to be up, but couldn’t get back to sleep anyways. Has only spoken to his friends via the group chat they all share, was turned down for lunch by Harley, who’s only explanation was ‘sorry, man, stuck in labs all day,’ which was fair enough, but it still sucked, all things considered, because Peter's trying to pretend things are normal between them and it _sucks_. And now he’s here, stepping off his third train of the day finally where he’s meant to be.

He’s an hour late. May’s already texted him, twice, telling him to food is getting cold and it takes Peter a significant amount of energy to not snap at his aunt.

It’s not like he controls the subway. 

By the time Peter’s walking up the stairs of his old apartment, before he moved on campus a three-hour train trip away, he’s in a considerably foul mood. Kind just wants to eat whatever takeout May bought, have a shower, and crawl into bed and sleep for the next ten hours.

Peter fishes his keys out automatically, swinging open the door to a dark apartment.

“May?” He calls out, keys rattling in the silence at he drops them on the entry-way table. “You home?”

Maybe she’s ducked out or gone to bed early. Neither makes sense, considering the text messengers on Peter’s phone, but he’d think it a fitting end to the day.

Just as Peter’s about to flick the living room light on, someone beats him to it. It’s a bright flare against his eyes, has him squinting as they adjust, which has him entirely unready for the shout that comes next. “Happy birthday, Peter!”

“Holy shit,” he breathes, half-startled, fully overwhelmed. “Oh my god, guys.”

Peter forgot his birthday.

Even through the tears that are suddenly forming in his eyes, Peter can make out the haphazard banner strung across the back wall, the balloons that seem to be everywhere, and Aunt May, standing in front of everyone he considers family.

Ned and MJ to one side, Gwen and Betty behind them. Mr Delmar, even, and a couple of his old Academic Decathlon teammates that he still keeps in touch with, Cindy and Sally.

And Harley.

Except he can’t really think about how Harley’s standing easy-as-you-please in his childhood home, because May’s sweeping him into a bone-crushing hug. “Happy twenty-first, baby!”

“Thanks, Aunt May,” Peter says, voice wet. “I kind of can’t breathe, though.”

“I’m so proud of you, Peter, you’ve grown into such an incredible young man,” May presses a kiss to his forehead before letting go. “I wish your parents were here to see you.”  
  
That makes Peter wrap his arms around her again, throat closing around the words that follow. “I wish Uncle Ben was here.”  
  
“Me too, baby, me too.”

Peter wipes away his tears, before making his way around the room, greeting the rest of his guests. Cindy and Sally he hasn’t seen in nearly four months, but somehow even they’ve heard about the Flash incident, giggling-whispering behind hands and pointing unsubtly in Harley’s direction with demands of an introduction, to which Peter says _yeah, yeah let me say hi first okay,_ and starts blabbing about Cindy’s new job to avoid doing just that. 

When he finally gets to them, Peter hugs Ned and MJ extra hard, arm slung around both of their shoulders. “Thanks, guys.”

MJ takes one look at him. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

Peter shrugs, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “Maybe.”

Harley’s the only one he has yet to say hi to, can spy him leaning against the kitchen bench. Stuck between MJ and Ned, Peter takes a moment just to look at him. He really wasn’t expecting Harley to be here—wasn’t expecting anyone, really, considering they all go to university in a different state—but of all people, Harley is the one who surprises him the most.

Well, maybe not surprises. Not since that party, or the gala, or the myriad other times. But it’s also been a handful of weeks since the gala and things are kind of only really just starting to go back to normal between them, the easy push-pull they’ve established since the start of the semester. So, it’s that—that they’ve only just gotten back to what it was before the fire alarm ruined it all and yet Harley’s still here, that surprises Peter

That’s not to say Peter isn’t enamoured with the fact that Harley’s currently _in his kitchen_ despite everything that’s happened.

MJ used to be the most intimidating one of their friend group, dry sarcasm and that particular brand of lesbian energy that just screamed ‘do not talk to me’ that blocked everyone out until they got close.

Then Harley came along.

Harley is scuffed Doc Martens, southern charm until provoked otherwise, leather jacket, caffeine addiction, and has the strongest ‘fuck with me and die’ vibe Peter’s ever come across, and he’s including Professor Romanov on that list.

If Peter’s being honest, it took him barely five minutes before falling for Harley. The way he was a whole whirlwind walking into their office, that sharp wit, those eyes and that hair. Maybe falling isn’t quite the right word—lust perhaps, but it’s been months since they first met and Peter knows his feelings have evolved—knows that maybe Harley’s have too.

Peter’s starting to realise, somewhere between the shared cups from Darwin’s and grading papers and working together in the prac labs, somewhere, somehow, he’s developed a not insignificant crush on Harley. That night at the party, when Flash ruined it all, when Harley basically declared that Peter was off limits to everyone there. That night in the quad, where they spilled their secrets and something changed irrevocably between them, like the opening of a closed door, that night that Peter can’t really think about without feeling equal parts warm and nervous about.

They haven’t really spoken about it, per say, the way things have gotten between them. It’s just simple and easy and it feels natural, the push-and-pull they have going on. The way Peter’s really the only way to call Harley _Harl,_ like it’s some sacred nickname reserved for only Peter’s use, or the way Harley’s kind of stopped calling everyone else in their friend group ‘darlin’ except for Peter, as if it’s started to mean more than just a simple habit. The way Harley came to Peter’s defence, that night of the party, despite not even knowing who Flash was, or the way Peter found him that night in the quad, and they spilled their tragic backstories to one another because it felt like the right moment. The way Peter can rant about thermodynamics and polymer chemicals for hours on end and Harley won’t tell him to shut up, not even once, will actively join in on the argument, will fire back with a smart quip from his arsenal of biomechanics knowledge that has Peter itching to write down for future research.

The way Harley is just _there,_ a solid, steady foundation for Peter fall back on. The way Peter’s just _there_ to pick up the pieces, no matter how sharply Harley may cut.

(Doesn’t want to think about the almost-perfect night at the gala, the brush of Harley’s hand through his hair, the way his eyes were spark-bright and how Peter was drowning in them, that almost-kiss, foiled by the fucking fire alarm. Doesn’t want to think about how that was truly the end of the beginning for him, the way Harley whispered so low between them, asking Peter if this is what he wanted—and it is, fucking hell, it is, Peter’s never wanted someone more than Harley.)

Harley fits neatly into their little gang. Gets along like a house on fire with MJ, can talk for hours about code with Ned despite not even studying it, is best friends with Gwen, talks about gender with Betty because Harley’s never liked labelling _anything_ , and Peter—well.

No one gets him quite like Harley does.

Yet, somehow, Harley’s _here,_ standing not-quite awkwardly in the kitchen Peter grew up in, looking charmingly out of place and perfectly right at the same time.

Ned nudges him. “You know, it was Harley’s idea, the surprise party? We only put the logistics together.”

“You’re kidding me,” Peter says, because he hadn’t even realised Harley had known when his birthday was.

“Nope,” Ned pops the _p_ obnoxiously. “He happened to overhear Betty asking what we were doing this year, and suggested throwing you a surprise party here.”

Peter doesn’t even know what to say to that.

“You should probably go thank him,” MJ says, dry as anything.

“Right, yeah,” Peter is speechless, still. “I’ll go do that.”

Peter wades his way through the balloons that cover the kitchen floor, carefully picking his way through least he accidentally stands on one and pops it.

Harley’s grinning around the lip of his beer bottle by the time Peter gets to him.

“Shut up,” Peter mutters, hoisting himself up onto the kitchen bench beside Harley. “Why do I know it was you who told my aunt to go overboard on the balloons?”

“Technically, I told MJ to tell your aunt to go overboard, so, you can’t really blame me, right?”

From his perch, Peter’s gained a handful of inches over Harley, slouched as he is against the bench. Harley has to tip his head back to grin up at Peter, and from this angle, it’s the most beautiful thing Peter’s ever seen. Distantly, he can hear the click of a camera, recognises without having to look that it’s Betty, who has blanket permission to snap pictures for their photography class. Doesn’t think he could tear his eyes away from Harley, regardless, even if he wanted to. Kind of wants to lean down and see what Harley would do if Peter kissed that smile.

Peter has to physically shake himself away from that train of thought.

“So,” he says, suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude from the man beside him. “I really appreciate this.”

“Happy birthday, Peter.” 

“No, Harl, I—” Peter cuts himself off, heaving a breath that has Harley straightening up beside him, turning to look him in the eye. “I’ve never really liked my birthday, after watching my uncle die and—and it’s been a long time since I’ve really celebrated it, or wanted to, and to be honest I totally forgot it was my birthday until I walked in and—I’m just really grateful I met you, so I really appreciate it. For making my birthday a celebration again.”

Peter blinks the tears out of his eyes. Harley’s own eyes are glistening.

There’s a part of Peter’s brain that tells him, maybe this—this _warmth_ and the look on Harley’s face is enough, more than enough, an answer to every unsaid thing between them.

“Yeah, ‘course, darlin’, you’re very welcome,” Harley’s voice is warm, honeyed, and Peter doesn’t really know what to do with himself at that, but—

Peter throws his arms around Harley’s shoulder with enough momentum that he slips off the kitchen bench. Forces Harley to catch him in his arms as he buries his face in the crook of Harley’s neck. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Peter doesn’t think he imagines that kiss Harley presses to the top his head, or soft murmur lost in his hair. “I’d do anything for you, sweetheart.”

That—that’s _too much_ to even think about.

“C’mon, you have to meet my aunt,” Peter says, blinking the tears out of his eyes, grabbing at Harley’s sleeve.

“Darlin’, you realise I’ve already met her?”

“No, you haven’t,” Peter looks over his shoulder, barely drops his eyes to where he slots his fingers in between Harley’s, catches the soft look on Harley’s face when he does. “Because I have to be the one to introduce you.”

“May,” Peter says, grabbing his aunt’s attention, pulling Harley to a stop, doesn’t let go of their entangled hands, hopes to god May doesn’t say anything from their phone call two weeks ago. “I know you two have already met, but just pretend for a hot second that you haven’t, okay?”  
  
Harley’s laughing quietly beside him, but at least May agrees. “Can’t disagree with the birthday boy.”

“Aunt May, this is Harley Keener.”

Peter watches, completely smitten, as Harley grabs the hand May held out, intending for a brisk shake, and brushes a kiss across her knuckles, playing up that damnable Southern accent of his. “The pleasure is all mine, Mrs Parker.”

“Well, aren’t you charming,” she says with a wry grin, and Peter doesn’t miss the way her eyes flick down to their hands, the quirk of her eyebrow that means Peter will be telling her _everything_ later over several tubs of ice cream. “And how do you know my nephew?”

“We work together at the university, although we tutor different classes—but, truth be told, ma’am, Peter probably could do my job twice as well as I do, I’ve never met anyone as intelligent as he is.”

“He’s lying,” Peter jumps in. “Harley still in undergrad but his teaching position is usually reserved for postgrads, so if anyone is smart here, it’s him.”

Harley’s smiling, looking right at Peter. “You know I’m going to disagree with you, sweetheart.”

“Well, Harley,” May cuts in just before Peter can reply. “Thank you very much for suggesting the party.”

Peter’s never seen his aunt _charmed_ but he thinks off all people to crack the inimitable May Parker, it’d definitely be Harley.

“Like I said to Peter, ma’am,” Harley squeezes Peter’s hand, which has Peter hiding a smiling behind Harley’s shoulder, because May’s already given him enough looks to last a lifetime tonight. “You’re very welcome.” 

May shoos them off after that, and her quick-bright flash of a smile towards Peter has him grinning wide in return.

Later that night, after Ned and MJ catch the late train back to campus, Gwen and Betty with them, and Cindy and Sally leave with promises of coffee the next time he’s in New York, Peter walks Harley to his car, parked a few blocks away from May’s building.

They walk with their hands gently brushing each other, until Peter shivers with the late-night cold, and then Peter finds himself suddenly tucked against Harley’s side, with Harley arm wrapped around his shoulder. It feels nice and warm and _right._

Eventually, Harley’s baby appears down the street, streetlights bouncing off the cherry red paintjob. Peter’s not really into cars, only knows the basics of how to drive, a symptom of growing up in the big city and catching public transport everywhere, but he can appreciate the classics. Harley’s told him all about, the first time Peter had realised that vintage Mustang he occasionally saw around campus actually _his._ Peter doesn’t think he’s ever heard Harley talk that fast, in between explaining about how he built the engine from scratch—just for fun—or how it took him nearly a year to even get everything together of the body kit.

“Thanks again, Harl,” Peter says, grinning up at Harley. “I really don’t know how to explain how much tonight meant to me.”

Harley reaches out to tuck an errant curl behind Peter’s ear, and Peter knows he must be blushing, but he couldn’t care less, if it means Harley’s finger traces the shell of his ear, skimming down the edge of his jaw like that.

“S’okay, darlin’,” Harley’s hand drops back to his side, and Peter’s suddenly aware of how close they are, how the air is suddenly charged with everything unsaid between them, how they’re on the _edge_ of this cliff, this sheer drop, and Peter doesn’t want to step back, not just yet. 

Peter curls his hands around Harley’s open leather jacket, the zipper digging into his palms as he uses it as leverage to pull himself up and pressing his lips to Harley’s cheek, right over the dimple of his wide grin.

“I’ll see you in a couple of days,” Peter says, letting go of Harley’s jacket, putting distance between them, not yet ready to jump.

“Bet on it,” Harley says, getting into his car. “Call me if you need anything.”

Peter’s heart swells—how did he get so lucky, meeting Harley Keener? The earth beneath Peter’s feet rumble once the engine starts, and Peter doesn’t know how long he stands there, watching the taillights fade from view. 

* * *

Peter does not, in fact, see Harley in a couple of days.

He returns to campus after his weekend back home in that unique pre-finals haze of prepping for late nights in the library fuelled by too much caffeine. Finals are still two weeks out, but Peter’s got intro engineering to deal with and has an immunology assignment due before he can even think about cramming for his final exams, let alone think about seeing Harley.

He’s barely seen hide nor hair of Ned, either, who says in the group chat that he’s starting to go cross-eyed with the amount of code he’s writing. That sparks a competition of who has it worse; Betty replies with a picture of their stack of journals they need for analysis; Gwen gives her yearly rant on why she’s going to drop out of physics, so help her god; MJ leaves them on seen, which is answer enough in itself; Peter sends a picture of his desk, the messiest it’s ever been since the beginning of the semester; Harley, who doesn’t reply until three hours after Ned’s initial message, sends them a mirror selfie, taken from the mechanical engineering lab—he looks fucking exhausted. There’s a massive rip in the sleeve of his white lab coat, various smears of what Peter hopes is engine oil, laptop and notebooks piled in the crook of his arm, and the protective goggles do nothing to hide the dark bags under his eyes. Everyone concedes the win to Harley once they realise he’s balancing both finals and the end of his senior project, which none of them could even imagine doing, even though they’ll have to this time next year.

They never seem to overlap in office, either. Peter knows this is because whenever he’s usually there is when Harley’s in class, because they seemed to have flipped schedules, bar that scant few hours late Tuesday and Friday afternoon. But even then, those hours are dedicated to studying.

A week in Peter steals one of Harley’s multiple keep cups—this one Stark Industries branded—and leaves early enough that he has time to drop into Darwin’s and swing back to the office to pop Harley’s usual order on his desk, still hot enough in the dual-walled cup when Harley arrives fifteen minutes later. It becomes a regular thing.

Two days later Peter sits down at his desk, bright and early and at something awful like nine in the morning, only to find a packet of his favourite study snacks in front of him, Harley’s messy scrawl across the accompanying sticky-note: _you are heaven sent, sweetheart x._

Peter posts a picture of it to his Instagram story—anonymous enough that only Ned and MJ and definitely Gwen are going to know that it’s Harley, apart from Harley himself, who replies once with the longest string of emojis that Peter has to scroll down to find the end of, and twice with a simple _miss you_ that Peter doesn’t think twice about heart reacting.

They end up facetiming halfway through finals week, stressed out of their minds but Peter’s never thought Harley’s looked half as good as he does through the high-def screen of Peter’s phone, nearly a whole month since they last saw each other in person in the streets of New York.

“Hey,” Peter says, almost breathless at the sight of him. “How’re you?”

“Aren’t you just a sight for sore eyes.”

Peter laughs, tries to hide the sudden racing of his heart. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

“Maybe,” Harley says wirily. “Maybe it’s just you, Parker.”

 _That_ doesn’t help the butterflies in Peter’s stomach at all—if anything it makes them worse. Because all he’s been thinking about this past month is about how he wished he’d kissed Harley that night, out in the street, under the lights of the city. How perfect it would’ve been, leaning against his car, Harley’s hand tangled in his hair, the first kiss to end all first kisses.

“I’m good, though, stressed, cannot wait for this to be over.”

It takes Peter a second to realise what Harley’s talking about. “How’s your project going?”

“Tony will not shut up about how he wants Stark Industries on the patent, so I guess that’s a good thing.”

“A _patent,”_ Peter’s jaw drops. “Harley, are you kidding?”

Harley shakes his head, looking equal parts smug and self-conscious. “The legal team has already sorted the paperwork, apparently. They just have to wait until I’m properly qualified as an engineer to put it through.”

“Oh my god.”

“I know.”

“Oh my god,” Peter repeats, this time softer, voice catching. “You graduate soon.”

Harley seems to sense the shift in Peter’s mood, even separated as they are through pixels and an entire university campus.

“Not long now,” Harley says, voice matching Peter’s. “It’s kind of terrifying, to be honest.” 

“Yeah, I guess,” Peter doesn’t really know what to say, too caught up in the fact that he’s going to spending the next year without Harley, who’s become such a staple part of Peter’s life that the thought of being without him is like being adrift at sea, which must show in Peter’s voice because the next words out of Harley’s mouth are—

“I’ll be back before you know it, sweetheart, can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Peter wants to say a million things to that. _I hope I’m never rid of you_ flashes through his mind so strongly he almost does say it. _Never want to be_ on the tip of his tongue. _I hope not_ lodging itself at the back of his throat.

He thinks maybe Harley gets it. Hopes to god Harley gets it.

Instead he just laughs, rolls his eyes, which has Harley cracking up because Peter can never seem to get it right, what with the way he’s grinning and all.

They end up talking for something like three hours, Peter complaining about his upcoming electrochem final, Harley digging through his room to find his old notes from when he took it, Peter talking about the vague idea he has for his senior project, Harley filling him in on what he’s missed regarding his, how the nanotech has developed in leaps and bounds since Harley began.

“You should sleep, darlin’,” Harley says around the eleven o’clock mark. “We both have big days tomorrow.”

Peter can tell he’s tired too, the way his accent thickens the later it gets, and he suddenly feels guilty, because this was his idea and Harley’s probably regretting staying up this late.

Peter yawns through his next words. “Sorry, didn’t realise the time.”

“All good, me neither,” Harley cracks his neck, an awful popping sound through the speakers. “Thanks for chatting with me for so long.”

Peter smiles at that, the way Harley knows just what to say to make him feel better.

“G’night, Peter.”

“Night, Harl,” Peter yawns again, and clicks the end call button with only a small amount of regret over words left unsaid. 

* * *

Peter’s sitting in the packed auditorium, MJ and Ned beside him, Gwen and Betty further down the row. It’s vastly different from the only other graduation he’s attended—his high school one three years ago that Peter barely even remembers except in pictures.

The entire room is covered head to toe in the colours of their university, bright against the otherwise dimmed lights.

“This’ll be us, next year,” MJ whispers to them.

“Seems surreal.”

“We still have to get through senior year, guys,” Peter deadpans, brain already melting. “How am I meant to teach _freshman_ in between advanced chem, my senior project, and biostats?”

Ned and MJ both laugh at him. _At_ being the keyword.

Peter ignores them by flicking through the commencement program. Harley isn’t due to walk across the stage until nearly an hour and a half in, after the valedictory speech. Peter’s already tuned the start of the ceremony out, only perking up once Professor Stark is introduced.

He hadn’t realised how many people were in Harley’s graduating class, because it takes forever for him to hit the K’s. But then he does, and one glance either side of him shows that all of them are on edge, waiting for Harley’s name to be called.

“Harley Keener,” Professor Stark says, and if his voice seems a bit more prideful, well, Peter’s sure he doesn’t mean it. “Bachelor of Science in Mechanical Engineering, graduating salutatorian.” 

Harley walks across the stage, each step purposeful. Peter, MJ and Ned stand up and shout, along with Gwen and Betty, louder than anyone else. Peter doesn’t miss the grin Harley flashes their way. In true Harley Keener style, he shakes Professor Starks hand, grabs the degree, smiles perfectly for the camera, and then he’s sweeping Professor Stark into a bear hug. The entire auditorium can hear the muffled _proud of you, Keener._ The hall erupts in applause as Harley takes a step back and walks off stage. Peter’s face hurts from grinning so much.

Peter’s hands are numb from clapping by the time the Dean begins his final speech. It’s another ten minutes until the graduates are given their last applause as they walk out of the hall, followed by the presiding ceremony staff.

Harley’s already spilled the beans on his post-university life, a couple of days ago over coffee. He has a job lined up already at Stark Industries, an entry-level position in their engineering department. Had told Peter how he’d applied for their graduate program without even mentioning it to Professor Stark, who stepped back from the company years ago and left it in the capable hands of his wife. How his application consisted of a gutsy research proposal to expand on his nanotech project and a hell of a lot of determination. How he plans on moving his sister out here the second his first pay cheque clears, because she’s about to start her senior year of high school, and Harley can’t stand the thought of her cooped up in that sprawling farmhouse in Tennessee much longer. She couldn’t even make it to his graduation, some bullshit about not being allowed to cross state borders, never mind the fact that Harley’s been her legal guardian ever since their mom passed. But the most important part—to Peter, at least—was the casual way Harley had said he’d come back to campus, just to meet up over coffee, because _who else is going to listen to you rant about chemical engineering to the fourth dimension, huh, Peter?_ That Peter’s already carved himself a slot of Harley’s time, is important enough to even do so, sends a thrill up his spine.

Peter, Ned and MJ manage to fight their way out, between crying parents and the click-flash of cameras and out into the quad. Gwen and Betty trail behind them, barely able to keep up amongst the flood of people. It’s absolutely teaming, a sea of bright blue sashes of the science department against black robes, and it’s only on account of Harley being the lanky giant that he is that Peter sees him from across the field, standing with Professor Stark.

“Go get your boy,” MJ nudges him with an elbow.

Peter blushes something fierce, doesn’t dissuade MJ though, the thought of Harley being _his_ anything curling low in his gut. He casts a look at both MJ and Ned, but they’re just nodding at him, heads bopping in encouragement, and he’s never been more thankful for them than in this moment.

Peter books it, ducking and weaving, walking too fast to be considered polite, almost skipping, that speed-walk that could break into a run at any second. He jogs the last few metres, comes to a stop right in front of Harley and Professor Stark.

He doesn’t even process the greeting he gets, his entire focus narrowing down to Harley, the world drowning out behind him.

“Harley,” Peter says, breathless. “I’m so proud of you.”

Peter’s only seen Harley smile a handful of times but this—this is a _grin,_ stretching across his face, happy and beautiful.

Peter can’t help himself—he stands on his tiptoes to wrap his arms around Harley’s shoulders. Harley slips an arm around Peter’s waist, and the next thing he knows is that Harley’s swinging him around, laughing, and Peter’s never heard a more gorgeous sound.

“Couldn’t have done it without you, sweetheart.” Harley says, soft and low between them. “Thank you.”

“You definitely could have,” Peter has to disagree, ignores the way his face heats up at _sweetheart,_ even after months of getting used to it, months of _craving_ it. “You’re the smartest person I know.”

Peter feels more than sees the hands Harley brings up to cup his jaw with, too entranced by the clear, crystalline blue of Harley’s eyes, the freckles that splash across his nose, the quirk of his mouth. All he can think is a tattoo of _Harley, Harley, Harley._

Harley’s eye crinkle with crow’s feet when he laughs, Peter’s just noticed. “You’re something else, Parker.”

“Hurry up and kiss me, Keener.”

Peter can't really believe he's just said that, but Harley takes it in stride, face softening into something tender, a gentle concession. 

“Bossy,” Harley smirks, and if Peter wasn’t so far gone, he’d kill him.

He’s going to kill him away, if the slow drag of his thumb over Peter’s lip is anything to go by, but then Harley’s ducking down, pressing the softest of kisses to the corner of Peter’s mouth, and Peter _swears_ he stops breathing.

He can hear Ned and Gwen whooping in the background. Pretty sure that’s MJ recording an Instagram story with her phone pointed at them like that. Thinks the wolf whistle is from Professor Stark.

Harley draws back, barely, the tinniest bit, just enough to look him in the eye, hands warm against Peters cheeks. “I mean it, Peter.”  
  
“I know.”

“It’s just—when I stumbled into our office that day I wasn’t expecting to meet the most thoughtful, genuine person I ever would, and I wasn’t expecting you to worm your way under my skin like you have, gorgeous, but I count my lucky stars that you did. That night at the gala, with the fire alarm, I fucking hated myself for that, for letting you go, and I just need you to know that I am so in—"

“Harley,” Peter laughs, cutting him off, can’t wait any longer. “I _know,_ okay? I love you too.”

Peter threads a hand into Harley’s hair, pulls him forward just enough to finally— _finally_ —kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **playlist:**  
>  • (can we be friends?), conan gray  
> • cowboy in la, lany  
> • the movies, nightly ft. charli adams  
> • sugar, brockhampton  
> • goodnight baby, tarune  
> • those eyes, new west  
> • august, flipturn  
> • affection, between friends  
> • no control, dylan reynolds  
> • impossible, nothing but thieves
> 
>  **the other general ramblings y'all are stuck w bc this fic has haunted me:**  
>  • harley's cologne is black orchid by tom ford, which i never fail to get compliments on when i wear it  
> • i can't read this title without thinking of that one hamilton song so if i have to suffer w that knowledge so do y'all  
> • i specifically made this chaptered _just_ for the split between chaps 2 and 3 >:)  
> • this fic fucked w my brain so hard bc my thesis supervisor's last name is also stark, but unlike peter we're on a reciprocal first name basis  
> • i listened to impossible so much while writing this fic i don't think i'll be able to associate that song with anything else lmfao  
> • darwin's also happens to be a cafe at my uni & it was too good of an opportunity to pass up  
> • things i had to google for this fic: american word for miffed; crash course in engineering; college semesters in the usa  
> • thanks for reading! come yell at me about this fic or harleypeter in general on tumblr [@volantium](https://volantium.tumblr.com)


End file.
